Body Parts
by braceface freak
Summary: ...but not in the fridge. A series of John/Sherlock drabbles based around different parts of the body. Mostly pre-slash.
1. Forehead

Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine, nor is John, Lestrade or any of the other marvellous characters created by Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle, Steven Moffat or Mark Gatiss. However if one day someone would like to buy me a birthday present I would in no way say no.

_This is just a collection of some VERY short one-shots I've written early in the morning before lectures because I have to do something other than work! _  
><em>I based them on body parts (can you guess why?) and there is one from John and Sherlock's point of view.<br>_

_Enjoy._

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><p><strong>Forehead<strong>

John

John was happy to admit he had never seen anything more perfect than the forehead of Sherlock Holmes. His skin was pale, almost pearlescent and only disturbed by the odd stray-curl of dark hair like a fleck of ink on paper: the perfect case for a marvellous brain.

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Sherlock

Golden.

That was the only word Sherlock could think of to describe the frontal portion of John Watson's head. Wispy strands of blonde hair danced over slightly tanned skin and caught the dimmed light of the living room; for a second Sherlock swore his flatmate wore a shining halo.


	2. Eyes

**Eyes**

John's PoV

It always amazed John how rapidly his flatmate's mood could change; one moment he was jumping over the furniture in joy and the next shooting up the wall with boredom.

His eyes were the perfect reflections of those emotions, crystal pools through which the light of excitement or the icy coldness of his judgement shone.

'_The eyes were the windows to the soul'_

John had heard the saying countless times before but he had never quite believed it until meeting Sherlock Holmes.

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Sherlock's PoV

Everybody always huffed about how blue was a cold colour, but Sherlock would bet everything he had they had never looked into John Watson's eyes.


	3. Lips

**Lips**

John

For a man who spent so much time frowning Sherlock's smile was bright enough to illuminate even the darkest room.

The rare phenomenon ran from one ear to the other and stretched his cheeks so his eyes became all small and squinty; it was enough to make John's own lips twist up.

If his flatmate had been a woman John would have had no qualms about kissing that smile right off of her face...sometimes he considered it without the 'if'.

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Sherlock

Sometimes, when he didn't have a case, Sherlock would spend hours watching his flatmate.

John Watson had many curious habits and one that always intrigued Sherlock was his peeking tongue.  
>That moist, pink tip would poke out whenever he was anxious, ecstatic or thinking especially hard (for a normal peson.) It would flick out dampen his lower lip and then rereat back into his mouth.<p>

_Fascinating_, Sherlock mulled, _absolutely__ fascinating_.


	4. Chin

**Chin**

John

John watched as Sherlock prattled on about the case, fully aware that he was meant to be paying attention but too hypnotised by the slow calculated movement of his flatmate's jaw. His fingers tingled with the desire to reach out and touch that soft, white skin; would it be as cold as it looked?

A pale digit tapped the chin and moved upwards drawing John's eyes with it. He gulped; he'd been caught!

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Sherlock

_He's been having nightmares again_, Sherlock thought as John strolled past into the kitchen.

He would have known even if he hadn't heard his gasping breaths over the past few nights, the stubble was a dead giveaway. That faint smattering of golden hair, a strange sight on the usually well-groomed ex-soldier, was only present when John wasn't sleeping properly.

Sherlock reached for John's wrists as he passed again but stopped just before he made contact, unsure of what he was supposed to say. His friend continued on oblivious as Sherlock decided to grab his violin instead, more at ease with the strings and bow than the rough state of his friend's chin.


	5. Neck

**Neck**

John

A slither of white, smooth skin revealed itself between the line of his chin and the blue knit of the scarf. His neck was ridiculously long, like a giraffe's, and just as elegant; a graceful column of pale flesh that rose and fell, stretched and sagged with every breath.

Giraffes had always been John's favourite animal.

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Sherlock

Chequered shirt, brown jumper and flash of golden skin: the typical attire of the good doctor.  
>Sherlock didn't like patterned shirts, never had, far too fussy but he could just about bear to look at them in his flatmate.<p>

It had nothing to do, of course, with the beautifully formed, taunt, tanned flesh of John's neck; nothing whatsoever.

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><p><em>Giraffes seem a little random I know, but go with it<em>.


	6. Shoulder

**Shoulder**

John

Sherlock's posture was perfect.  
>In fact John was sure his old drill sergeant would have fallen in love with that poker straight back and set shoulders.<p>

The only time he had ever witnessed those shoulders slump or that spine give way was when the man was overcome with relieved laughter or restless boredom: the two extremes of Sherlock Holmes.

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Sherlock

Once; that was the number of times Sherlock had caught a glimpse of the wound that had landed John back in the civilian world.

The web of white, scar tissue that wove across his collar bone was intriguing; naturally Sherlock had stared and naturally John had instantly covered it up with something akin to a blush.

But the hardened tissue was burned into the back of his eyelids.

He felt even worse, a traitor even, knowing he was in some way thankful to the damned bullet: it had bought John Watson into his life and for that he was eternally grateful.


	7. Elbow

**Elbow**

John

Pain.

John was used to it but he didn't expect to feel it on his sofa at home.

Looking down he saw the culprit and sighed, he should have known; Sherlock was all sharp corners and hard angles.  
>John shifted but only succeeded in getting his flatmate's elbow pressed more firmly into his ribs.<p>

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Sherlock

Bend and flex.  
>Bend and flex.<br>The elbow was a marvellous thing, an intricate contraption of bone, muscle and tendons that co-ordinated in perfect sync holding the arm absolutely steady in the heat of battle or bent at the exact angle needed to cradle a sleep-drooped head.

Perfect.


	8. Fingers

**Fingers**

John

Everything about Sherlock Holmes was pale and stretched and elegant; his neck, his feet, his fingers...

And restless, he was _always_ restless: his fingers, those long, graceful, white digits were always curling around his violin bow, tapping a rhythm on the arm of a chair or steepling together as he stared off lost in thought. They never seemed to stop as they shoved John's coat over his shoulders because he was being too slow or gripped his wrist pulling him to safety.

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Sherlock

Click.

Sherlock heard rather than saw John's fingers tighten on the trigger.  
>Around him the darkness was absolute.<br>Not that he needed light to see his friend.  
>He could picture it clearly.<br>John's tanned fingers pressed against cold, dark metal.  
>His hand completely still even as it levelled itself in the direction of their suspects footsteps.<p>

BANG!

Thud.

A crackshot as always.


	9. Chest

**Chest**

John

Two weeks. They'd been on a case for two weeks and in all that time John hadn't seen anything bigger than a biscuit pass his friend's lips.

It was therefore really no surprise that he could count every rib as Sherlock pressed him into the safe shadows of the alley, like bony hills beneath his palm.

He was going to get the other man to eat even if he had to force the food down Sherlock's damned throat, he sighed, if only it would be that easy.

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Sherlock

John was in surprisingly good shape for an ex-soldier.  
>Granted he had put on a few pounds, <em>probably Mrs Hudson's fault for buying all those bloody biscuits<em>, since arriving at Baker Street but the remnants of toned muscle from military service was still _very_ visible and _very_ solid.

Not that Sherlock had any interest other than that of mere observation.


	10. Hip

**Hip**

John

_I__ really__ need__ to __take__ him __shopping_, John Watson thought to himself, _his__ shirts __are __much __too__ small._

The slip of snowy skin between the deep purple of his shirt and the black of his trousers was a common sight; the sharp edge of his hip bone pressing taunt against the fabric.

On the other hand maybe Sherlock's obsession with too-tight shirts wasn't too bad.

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Sherlock

Back straight; forehead creased and drawn over his eyes; feet exactly a foot apart; hands on hips.

Sherlock sighed and entered his flat. John was stood there-in a mood-just as he'd pictured.

This was going to be a long and unpleasant evening.


	11. Thigh

**Thigh**

John

Sherlock had especially thin thighs considering he would spend days just lounging on the sofa like some lanky, overgrown cat. John supposed running around London like a cheetah on speed would do that to you.

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Sherlock

The only weakness of John Watson.

It wasn't the messy scar on his shoulder where a bullet had nearly taken his life.  
>It wasn't his heart; that was his strength, even if Sherlock hated to admit it.<br>It wasn't even his brain which was nowhere near as sharp as his own but still somewhat above average as much as Sherlock told him otherwise.

It was his bloody _flawless_ thigh and the horrors war had burned onto the back of his eyelids.


	12. Ankle

**Ankle  
><strong>

John

A flash of rounded bone; cold, white skin stretched tightly over like a canvas greeted John's eyes as his friend knelt down to examine the body.  
>It looked so fragile, the ankle of a victorian lady: how had it ever managed to hold the man up as he raced around the capital?<br>Like _almost_ everything about Sherlock Holmes it was stronger than it looked.

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Sherlock

John's feet were pressed against his leg as he sat watching crap TV. His jeans had crept up a little and exposed his ankle to the warm air of the flat; that little slice of tanned skin, those wispy golden-brown hairs, they were far more interesting than the flashing pictures playing out on the screen.


	13. Toes

**Toes**

John

John had always hated toes.

Maybe it came from the days when he was very little and Harry had pushed her muddy feet into his face to keep him away from her.

Yes, he loathed those bizarre bits of flesh and skin.

Until the long and frankly beautiful toes of Sherlock Holmes had entered his life.

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Sherlock

Sherlock saw John's stubby toes curl into the carpet; he heard the shag rustle as his nails raked through the fibres.  
>The detective froze. Since when had his flatmate picked up this habit of bare-footedness?<p>

Sherlock took a large gulp of tea and nearly choked as John's bare toes appeared, wriggling in his lap.

"What are you doing?" he croaked out.

The doctor smiled.  
>"Giving you a taste of your own medicine."<p>

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><p><em>So that is it. The end. <em>

_What did you think? Utterly pointless I know but it kept me entertained for a few weeks._ _Hope it kept you entertained for a few minutes. _

_Thanks for reading._


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